


Rune Me

by fiface



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Stiles, Banshee Lydia, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Magic Stiles, Perhaps some OCs, Runes, THIS IS A WIP, alpha!Derek, definite violence, maybe some fluff?, oooh angst, post s3a, probably, technically self-harm, there is almost noncon, triggering, will be Jossed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiface/pseuds/fiface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, my God!” Stiles gasped, lunging forward into Derek, and wrapping his arms around him. Derek fell backwards slightly, but managed to not fall entirely, his arms returning the gesture, holding Stiles to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta Sami!! You are the absolute best! This would be a complete piece of poo without you! Any mistakes left are my own.  
> I OWN STEREK. Obviously. 
> 
> This story all came about because of Teen Wolf (funnily enough) and The Mortal Instruments, but only in passing.  
> The idea is swirling in my head, and I'm still working it out.  
> Stick with me?

It was dark and raining, which was so totally Stiles' luck that all he could do is glare out of his windscreen. Of course his goddamned jeep would break down on him in the middle of nowhere at the ass-crack of whatever time it was. That was his life after all.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, resorting to calling his dad to come and pick him up, and let out a frustrated sob when his phone wouldn't even light up. Of course it would be flat. Of course it would. He resolutely smacked the steering wheel, but instantly regretted it when his hand smarted. 

What the hell was he supposed to do now? His engine wouldn't even turn over, his phone was flat, he was in the middle of a back road, having chosen to take a less noticeable route, so that his father would not get wind of the fact that he had left town. After all, Stiles was allowed to travel through Beacon Hills basically unchecked, but if he was planning on leaving the county, he needed his father’s permission. Understandably so, but kind of annoying at the same time.

Either way, he was now probably a half an hour drive from Beacon Hills, on a small, barely even there road that was surrounded by thick woods on either side in the middle of the night. He was so dead. So so so dead. The Sheriff was absolutely going to kill him when he got home... If he got home.

What were the chances of a car driving by? Was there a chance? Most people didn't take this route, which was exactly why he had. Gah, Stiles hated how he tended to overthink things. 

Stiles chewed his lip thoughtfully, the frown not leaving his face, as he glanced at his backpack sat on the passenger seat. Inside that bag was the reason he had even left Beacon Hills to begin with. Several thick, overly priced books. Seriously, it better be worth it.

The books were about runes. Stiles had got the idea several days before, when he had gone to the cinema and watched The Mortal Instruments. The use of runes in the movie had struck him. Everyone he knew was handy, and had superpowers. There was Scott and Isaac, even Derek and Cora, with their werewolf powers, Lydia being a banshee, Allison with her huntress skills... and then there was Stiles. Annoying, hyperactive Stiles that just required saving. 

He had then began to wonder, as the movie progressed, if the use of runes was even possible? So, as soon as he had gotten home, he begun his research, looking to the very bowels of the internet, trying to find something useful. But the problem Stiles had found with the internet was how not everything was useful, or even truthful, and trying to find anything on the paranormal was almost impossible. 

But, he had eventually found about the little new age shop, a two-hour drive away. So, of course, Stiles decided it was appropriate that he take the little trip and see if the shop, Morrigan's Cove, sold factual books. It had taken a little bit of persuasion for the owner of the shop to even mention the books, let alone sell them, but Stiles had literally worn the man down with his talking. He just talked circles around him, until the man finally caved. 

Ultimately, Stiles didn't know if he had actually won that round, or if the man did, selling the books at such a ridiculous price that Stiles had actually winced as he pulled out the cash. He tried to blank the dent in his wallet from his memory. He would only find out when he got home and started to work. 

But it didn't seem like Stiles was going to be getting home anytime soon with the way his luck had gone. He was still glaring at the bag, contemplating its worth. If the books were of any use—the way the bloody things cost, they better—Stiles decided it wasn't worth the risk to leave them there, sitting on the seat of his car, in the middle of nowhere, especially if he was planning on leaving the car there on the side of the road.

Stiles grabbed the bag and sighed heavily. He opened the door to the jeep and sighed again and finally clambered out of his stupid, no good, broken jeep. He slammed the door shut behind him, glared at the blue metal he could barely see in the dark, and then patted the door gently.

“Sorry, old girl. I'll come and get you tomorrow, I promise,” he whispered to the jeep in a soothing voice. Stiles paid no heed that it was just a car and couldn't actually understand him. Scott was a werewolf and could understand him, after all.

He turned his back on the jeep, and started to walk. Within minutes, he was soaked to the core; his thin jacket doing nothing to keep him warm. Of course it would be the day his jeep breaks down that he decides to go without his normal seven layers of clothing, but what could be done now?

He didn't know how long he had been walking for, but it felt like forever. The bag with the big heavy books in it had begun to way down on his shoulders, causing them to ache, and his feet were certainly not enjoying the continuous walking he was doing. 

Stiles could barely see the road under his feet, the moon barely even visible in the sky past the clouds, and it wasn't like it was a full moon, so even without clouds blocking its shine, it would be basically useless anyway. He groaned as he walked on, cursing his life and his luck. 

Speaking of his luck, he was sure he heard something. Something somewhere behind him, or beside him, he didn't know. He couldn't see properly. Either way, he could hear something. It sounded suspiciously like heavy breathing, and Stiles had to hold his breath to make sure he wasn't just hearing his own breathing. It's not like his was quiet or anything, he was puffing quite heavily from exhaustion. 

It was when something shoved into him, sending him sprawling forward onto the tarmac of the road, that Stiles really began cursing his stupidity. Maybe he should have just stayed in the jeep and prayed a car drove by. But, no, he decided to walk. 

His chin hit the ground, and he bit his tongue from the force. The taste of blood flooded his mouth, his chin throbbed where he had grazed it, probably also bleeding. With wide eyes and his breathing now coming in quick gasps, Stiles tried to pull himself away from whatever had pushed him over. He heard deep laughter, and then a heavy weight landed on him, pinning him down. 

He could feel warm breath on the back of his neck, his bag being shifted around his back and he clawed at the ground, trying to get away from whoever, whatever, was sitting on him.

“Get off, get off!” he screamed, struggling. He could barely move, and the wind had been knocked quite proficiently out of him. Terror was seeping through him. He had absolutely no idea what was on him. 

A hand trailed down his side, where his thin jacket and t-shirt below it had pulled up in his tumble, displaying pale skin. The fingers of whoever was on him were cold, freezing cold, and sent shivers down his spine. 

“You smell delicious,” a deep voice whispered in his ear, and Stiles turned his head, trying to get the away from the moist breath. The man behind him chuckled. Well, Stiles had no idea if he was a man, but he was male, whatever species he was. 

“I don't know whether to kill you, or play with you,” the voice whispered again, the hand on Stiles' side still caressing him, while his other one went into his hair and ran through the strands. Stiles wasn't sure if he was wishing he still had his buzz cut or if having hair was better at keeping those weirdly cold hands away. 

Stiles was writhing, trying to get his body out from beneath this... this whatever the male was. Maybe he was just a human killer? No, Stiles could never get the lucky. The man let out a breathy laugh against Stiles' ear, moaning.

“I'm thinking you want to play, little one,” he whispered into Stiles' ear. 

“NoNoNoNo!” Stiles was chanting, his breath coming in short gasps, the fear turning his body almost as cold as the hands touching him. He wanted to get away, wanted to get out from under him. The darkness, and the man sitting on him made Stiles feel like he was suffocating. He couldn't see properly and couldn't breathe properly. Was this how it was all going to end for him? A complete surprise, like someone that didn't know anything about the Supernatural, and that it actually existed in their fucked up world? God, how was this even his life.

Suddenly, the man was swearing in his ear, and pushing himself up off of Stiles, and Stiles barely managed to hear the man run off, but he could hear a car coming towards him. Stiles wasn't sure if he was relieved, or if he was being passed from one bad thing to another, so he just remained laying on the ground. Not that he would be able to get up, even if he wanted to, his body having gone numb. 

The car had stopped, several metres away. Stiles wasn't sure how far, not having the energy to even look up. Footsteps rushed towards him, then a large hand fell on his back, just above where his bag was still resting. Stiles flinched.

“Stiles?” The voice was familiar. So familiar, and definitely safe that Stiles let out a shocked sob. He turned his head, and saw Derek kneeling next to him, his face illuminated by the headlights that were coming from his car. His hair was wet, but his eyes were wide, and his mouth was twisted in confusion and worry. It wasn't an entirely familiar expression, but it wasn't entirely new. 

Stiles managed to pull himself to his knees, his relief palpable, even to Derek, who didn't remove his hand, keeping it there to steady Stiles.

“Oh, my God!” Stiles gasped, lunging forward into Derek, and wrapping his arms around him. Derek fell backwards slightly, but managed to not fall entirely, his arms returning the gesture, holding Stiles to him.

“What happened?” Derek asked. Stiles peered up at him, his own eyes wide and wet. 

“I don't even know. Why are you here?” he asked the older man. Derek hadn't been anywhere near Beacon Hills for months. He and Cora had left just after the Alpha Pack and the Darach had been sorted. And while Stiles wasn't entirely devastated about the two Hales leaving, he hadn't been too happy either. 

“We were coming back to town. Cora needs to settle down and finish high school, and we figured that Beacon Hills was the devil we knew, so we were coming back,” Derek muttered, staring down at Stiles, as though he was trying to figure something out. “We saw your jeep a few miles back, and when you weren't in it, we decided to keep an eye out for you. We could hear your heart beat, it was all erratic, and we could hear someone else, but didn't know who they were. No one else was here when we got here. Stiles, what happened?” Derek demanded, the frown on his face such a familiar sight that Stiles felt himself relaxing. 

Stiles actually smiled slightly.

“The jeep broke down. My phone was flat. I was stupid enough to walk. Something pushed me over, held me down, threatened me and then ran off when you turned up,” Stiles said, decided to leave out the actual comments that the being had said to him. He didn't need to relive that. Derek nodded along with him, before standing up and pulling Stiles to his shaky feet.

“I'll give you a lift back to town,” he said. Stiles' smile was huge and almost painful.

“Thank God, for a moment there I thought you were going to leave me on the side of the road,” Stiles said, half joking. He actually had no idea what Derek would do. But he figured, if the man was willing to let Stiles cling to him, then he wasn't going to leave him. Derek rarely left Stiles alone and in danger. That was more a Scott thing to do, Stiles thought guiltily.

Derek didn't even deign to respond, instead, he turned towards his car, which was not the Camaro, to Stiles' surprise, but was rather a dark SUV, and climbed in. Stiles walked towards the car as well, but, seeing Cora in the front passenger seat, took the seat behind her. 

“Hey Cora,” he greeted her as he clipped his seat belt. The younger Hale sibling smiled at him.

“You alright, Stiles?” she asked him, to which he nodded. Derek began driving. Stiles stared out his window, realising that his hands were shaking quite badly, and that there was probably blood dripping off his chin. Of course, Derek hadn't mentioned that, the man too used to the sight of blood probably. 

The two Hales in the front seats didn't speak for a while after they began driving. But Stiles was not blind to the continuous glances he was thrown through the rear view mirror, nor was he blind to the concern in them. He was probably throwing them off with his silence, which was something he did often. Be silent, that is. 

After a few minutes, Stiles and Derek caught each others eye in the mirror, and they stared. The concern Stiles could see in Derek’s eye just brought back the memory of being at the loft just after the Sheriff had been kidnapped, when Ms. Blake was trying to tell Derek that Stiles was lying about her being the Darach. Derek had stared at Stiles, with Stiles begging for the man to believe him, and Derek staring back, the look in his eyes one of extreme concern.

The concern for Stiles was something he didn't think he would ever get used to. At the time in the loft, it was something Stiles wanted, needed, but right now, right now, Stiles didn't think he could handle the concern without feeling like he was going to fall apart completely. He was barely managing to contain the outright ugly sobbing that was threatening to start at any moment and if Derek continued to look at him like that, it was likely to start sooner rather than later, and Stiles didn't want to be in front of anyone when that happened.

He tore his eyes away, unable to continue looking at the man who had, once again, saved him. But, what did he save him from? Was it just some man that was out to kill, or rape him? Or was it some type of monster that was intent on killing him. 

“You smell delicious.” 

The words floated through his head, so loud and clear, like they had been spoken inside the car, rather than in his head, and Stiles gasped, his head turning this way and that, looking for the person the voice belonged to. Of course, the only other people in the car were Derek and Cora, who were both staring at him, Cora having turned fully in her seat, while Derek’s eyes were once again on him in the rear view mirror. 

“What?” he asked them, trying to play cool. Both of them narrowed their eyes at him in an almost identical fashion, and Stiles felt laughter bubble up inside of him. Sure, it was slightly hysterical laughter, but laughter was laughter right?

“Your heartbeat, Stiles,” Cora was saying. “It sky-rocketed.” 

Stiles shook his head, but the girl’s face remained serious, despite the laugh that was spilling from Stiles' lips.

“I recognised a tree? It was happiness?” Stiles tried, not even caring that they could tell he was lying by the way his heart probably skipped a beat. God, he hated werewolves. He wouldn't even be in this mess if it weren’t for werewolves. 

Which is total bullshit because he wouldn't even be in this mess if he could have kept his curiosity under wraps all those months ago when he had dragged Scott out to look for that dead body. 

The dead body that was the older sister to the two werewolves sitting in front of him. Shit. God he hated himself. He wouldn't even be in this mess if it weren’t for himself. Gah.

The two werewolves were still staring at him.

“Oi, watch the road!” he snapped at Derek, who actually listened and turned his eyes back to the road. Cora, however, didn't turn back around; instead she kept her eyes, and her entire body, facing Stiles. 

“Whatever happened, Stiles,” she began, her voice soft, gentle, as though she were afraid she would startle him, which, yeah, given the circumstances he had just suffered, he would probably startle pretty easily. “You're safe now.” Her eyes were boring into his, pleading with him to believe her. 

When Stiles first met Cora, he hadn't particularly liked her. Sure she was hot, but, she was too surly and too much like her brother, but as they got to know each other, he had started to like her, like he had started to like her brother. And he had saved her life, like he had saved her brother’s life. It was like a pattern, Stilinski saving the Hales. And killing them, in Peter’s case. 

Stiles knew what Cora meant. Knew that she meant he was safe with them. That nothing would happen to him whilst he was with them. But that wasn't exactly true, because a lot of pain had happened to him whilst he was with them. But, so not the point, those were under completely different circumstances, after all. 

Stiles nodded his head. Even if his hands were shaking, and his blood was cold, and his chin and knees and hands hurt, a headache building behind his eyes the size of Australia, he would pretend he was alright just so they would stop being concerned with him. Even if there were an honest to god reason to be concerned, he would pretend otherwise.

This was the very reason he had gone to Morrigan’s Cove, so that he could learn to protect himself in some way, so other people wouldn't have to, and on the very drive back from purchasing the ticket to safety, he had been attacked. It was so his luck.

“You know. I'd gone out of town to buy something to protect me,” Stiles began, muttering, not sure if he was talking to them, or just voicing his thoughts in general. “And on the drive back home everything turns to shit,” he raised a shaking hand to his mouth, chewing on his thumbnail absentmindedly. “My life sucks.” 

Derek snorted. Cora reached a hand back to him, and rested it on his shoulder. Stiles resisted flinching. Cora didn't miss it though, and her eyes narrowed.

“Stiles...” she began. 

“I'm fine,” he whispered, pushing her hand off him, and rubbing his face, avoiding his chin like the plague. Seriously, that shit hurt. He closed his eyes and rested the side of his head on the window, appreciating the coolness of it, unlike the freezing cold of the man’s hands. 

The rain was getting heavier, and Stiles realised he was wearing wet clothes. With everything that had happened, he forgot that it had been raining on him. 

“Where are you guys going to be staying when you get back?” Stiles asked, needing the subject to be changed entirely and for the focus to be off of him. 

“Derek’s found us a proper apartment. One that we can actually furnish and live in, and hopefully not be attacked in,” Cora answered him, obviously realising what he wanted. She shot him a small, understanding smile. “It's actually not far from your place,” she admitted with a small shrug. Stiles nodded his head, showing he was still listening, despite closing his eyes. 

“You should check it out with us?” the girl offered. Before Stiles even had a chance to respond, Derek interrupted.

“Maybe tomorrow or something. I think Stiles needs to get home and into bed. I'm betting the Sheriff isn't going to be to happy with him for being so late,” the older Hale said.

It was Stiles' turn to snort. Understatement of the century. His father was going to absolutely skin him alive. 

“Not to mention, he looks like he's going to pass out at any moment,” Derek said. 

Stiles' eyes flew open at that statement and he sat up straight, and glared at the man, who was smirking at him in the mirror. Stiles really wanted to make some type of snarky comment, but his mind came up blank, and he ended up just shrugging in agreement. All he wanted to do right now was take a nice hot shower, scrub the strange man off his skin, and curl up in bed and sleep for a year.

Yeah that sounded nice.

With those thoughts floating pleasantly through his head, he smiled benignly at Derek, surprising him. Derek just shook his head in return. Stiles definitely prided himself on being able to keep people on their toes, even if it was unintentional. 

“I thought he had ADHD, not bipolar,” Cora whispered to Derek, but not quiet enough that Stiles missed it. He glared at her, and immaturely, he poked his tongue out at her. Hey, it's not like he was an adult, he could still be childish if he wanted. And after the night he had had, he was sure he warranted the need for childish antics.

Stiles relaxed into his seat, as Cora and Derek had a quiet conversation in the front of the car. He once again closed his eyes, and let the quiet comfort of the car wash over him, lulling him into a light doze, the voices of his saviours a pleasant murmur that washed over him. 

Before Stiles even knew it, Derek was leaning over him, shaking him gently awake.

“You're home, Stiles, time to wake up,” the older man was whispering, and Stiles blinked owlishly up at him. He had not realised he'd actually fallen asleep. With jerky movements, Stiles undid his seat belt and climbed out of the car, Derek’s hand on his arm steadying him as he went. Stiles was about to walk away with a nod, when Derek handed him his forgotten backpack. 

Stiles stared at Derek a moment, eyes not wavering, watching the green he could see because of the street lamp several feet away.

“Thank you, Derek. Honestly, if you hadn't turned up... Thank you,” Stiles murmured, as serious as he had ever managed to be. Derek nodded his head.

“I'm glad I was there to help,” was his reply, his voice honest and earnest. And Stiles believed him. He turned away from the werewolf, and walked up to his front door. 

With his still shaking hands, he managed to put the key in the lock and undo the door. He had barely shut the door behind himself when he heard his Dad's fake cough behind him. With his eyes closed, he put the bag on the floor beside the door, and slowly turned, opening his eyes as he did so, to see his Dad standing there, arms crossed, heavy glare gracing his features.

“Heya, Dad,” Stiles said awkwardly, giving a small wave. The glare just deepened as the Sheriff took in the state of his face.

“Where the hell have you been? It's after midnight!” Dad yelled, stepping forward. Stiles stepped back, his eyes wide, his back hitting the door. His Dad’s eyes widened in return, and he took a step back as well. He suddenly seemed unsure. It was very rare that Stiles actually backed down when his dad was yelling or telling him off. 

“Uh, my car broke down,” Stiles managed to say after a deep breath. He stepped forward. This was his Dad; he wasn't going to hurt him. He was just angry. That's all. No need to get all worked up over nothing, idiot.

“Why didn't you call me?” Dad demanded, his voice weaker than it had been.

“Because my phone was flat,” Stiles murmured, before racing forward and flinging himself into Dad’s arms, silently begging for his forgiveness. Dad wrapped his arms around him, rubbing his back soothingly.

“It's okay, Stiles, I was just worried.” The anger had obviously fled, and Stiles sagged in relief. “What happened to your face?” Dad asked, and Stiles felt himself re-tense. He didn't want to have this conversation again.

“I fell over on the side of the road, hit my chin, bit my tongue,” he said, not even bothering to fake a laugh. Dad would easily believe this as the truth because Stiles was, after all, a klutz. The thing was, Dad knew about werewolves and all that now, but he wasn't even sure if this was supernaturally related, so why get Dad worked up when he'd never see the man that had attacked him ever again? Hopefully.

“Stiles...” Dad said, shaking his head, amusement evident in his tone. “Go shower and head to bed. We'll talk in the morning,” he said, squeezing his son once more before letting him go and pushing him towards the stairs. Stiles stumbled in the direction gratefully and basically bolted up the stairs. 

He stood under the hot spray of the shower, relishing in the heat. He let the water run over his face and over his body, his eyes closed, breathing deeply. After several minutes of relaxing, he began to wash his body, scrubbing hard at his side, the side where that man had touched him, caressed him. It actually hurt, a dull ache that he hadn't noticed before. 

With a glance down and a heavy gasp, he saw a dark mottling of bruises up his side. The man hadn't been pressing that hard, why on earth had it bruised. He felt his knees buckle, and he landed in the bottom of the shower painfully, his eyes unable to leave the marks that littered his side. 

His breath caught in his throat. Stiles closed his eyes, counted to four and opened them again. The bruises were still there. He poked at them. They twinged. 

“What the hell?” Stiles whispered. He glared. He pouted. He frowned. And with the water rushing over him, he could easily deny that he cried.

Obviously, not human. Obviously, monster. Just his goddamned luck. 

He stayed in the shower until the water went cold and his skin had pruned and his tears were no longer tears but just water from the shower. His breathing had returned to normal, and the bruises still littered his skin.

Un-fucking-believable.


	2. Chapter Two

It isn't the first time he has ever done it, and it probably will not be the last time either, even though he knows it’s stupid, dangerous even. But sometimes, sacrifices need to be made. Stiles has a deep hatred for sacrifices now though, so he refuses to even think of it as that, not that he even thought about it at all. Just pops a tablet, swallowing it dry and getting to work.

When he picks his bag up from besides the front door, as quiet as he can manage, he’s surprised with how heavy it actually is. Stiles pays it no heed, however. He carries it to his room, sitting on his bed and pulling the large tomes out of the bag.

With a baleful stare at the goddamned books he now almost literally regretted buying, he picks one up and starts flipping through it. Stiles has a routine when it comes to books like this. He can't just start reading it, right from the start. He has to flip through, glance at pictures, and get a feel of the book itself. Nobody else knows and nobody else has any room to judge; he gets the information that is needed, doesn’t he? They can kiss his ass if they decided to take the mickey.

Mind blank of any thoughts from what had occurred that night, Stiles begins to read in earnest. He is forever thankful for the invention of Adderall because if that shit weren’t created, any chance of him being able to focus for longer than thirty seconds would be well and truly gone. 

Hours pass as Stiles reads the first book. The text is small and handwritten. The pictures and diagrams are well detailed, and Stiles spends a fair amount of time looking at each image, memorizing them. Stiles is legitimately surprised by the interest he has in the runes. 

To the side of him, Stiles has a notepad and a pen, and is taking down notes as he goes, sometimes even absentmindedly doodling the runes he sees. From what he can gather, the runes he draws will have no power behind them unless he instilled the power in them. He wasn't a hundred percent sure how to do that, but he figures it was probably something like Mountain Ash. To believe. 

Stiles does not want to believe. Stiles wants to hide away from the world.

That very thought actually shocks him. He hasn't even been aware that he was subconsciously thinking. But, of course he was. There is only so much his pills can do. He stares out the window blankly, for a moment, frowning. 

It takes him a moment to realise that he isn't looking out to the inky darkness of the night like he thought he was. No, it’s daylight now. How had he not even realised that the sun had come up? His shoulders slump as he glances at his clock. 

6:45 a.m.

Great. An entire nights sleep, just gone. Or, not happened. Or whatever. He didn't get any sleep. He has school. He is going to absolutely die.

Stiles crawls stiffly from his bed, stretching out his back, and sighing heavily. Sure, it wouldn't be the first time he has ever gone to school without sleep. 

Poo.

He pulls on a pair of jeans, an old comic book t-shirt, plaid shirt over top, and a red hoodie over that. Screw everything; it’s cold. Sure, the sun is shining, but how long will that last? Stiles doesn’t know, he isn't a weatherman. And look what happened last night! IT RAINED. Because this is Stiles' life. 

Not the point.

He gets dressed, repacking his bag, stuffing one of his new books inside. Stiles sighs at the weight of the bag. After brushing his teeth and blatantly ignoring his painful chin, he swallows another Adderall. He knows it had only been a few short hours since he had taken the last one, but he also hasn't slept, and could already sense the crash he will no doubt suffer halfway through the day if he doesn't. 

A quick glance at his watch and he rushes out the door. Not even a chance for breakfast. Damn it. He stops dead when he gets outside.

Where the hell is his Jeep? 

It takes him a moment to remember that it’s in the middle of Nowhere, Nowheresville. Stiles is enough of a man to admit that he stomps his foot. WHY!? Now he has to walk to school. He hates walking. He is sick of walking. He did far too much walking last night. Is it too early in the morning for him to kill himself? He certainly doesn't think so.

A horn honks. Stiles trips over his own feet as he spins around, startled. He rights himself to see Derek's SUV on the side of the road, the passenger window wound down, Cora sitting there, smirk on her face, and Stiles can just make out Derek sitting in the drivers seat, probably glowering. Typical.

Stiles raises an eyebrow at them, silently questioning them. 

“Get in,” Cora calls out to him. Stiles' other eyebrow raises to match the first. 

“Uh, I have school,” he informs her, like she's stupid. He doesn't miss the roll of her eyes.

“And that's where we are heading. Get in,” She commands. Her tone of voice is so similar to Derek's that Stiles barely hesitates, before finally climbing into the car.

“Why are you going to the school?” he asks as he's buckling his seat belt. He sees Derek's eyes looking back at him in the rear view mirror, reminding him of last night. Except this time, there is no look of concern, just annoyance. Stiles is willing to bet that it was Cora's idea that they take him to school.

“Because I'm enrolling today. Don't you remember anything that anyone ever tells you?” Cora says, not harshly, more with amusement, turned in her seat much as she had last night. God, the parallels between the night before and now... Stiles gives her the stink eye. 

“Excuse you, but last night was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster,” he tells her, fighting internally to not think too much about the night before, less his heart beat sky rocket, and cause him a panic attack, or something. No, he's sick of those stupid things.

The amused look on Cora's face softens. Stiles sighs. He was not going to be talking about this. Nope. Not at all.

“I'll take you to get your jeep after school,” Derek tells him, speaking for the first time since Stiles climbed into the back of his car. Stiles wonders if Cora had also demanded he do that. Though Stiles has no idea why either of them was being helpful. It was weird. Really weird.

“Uh...” Stiles trails off before he's even fully formed a sentence in his head. He was going to get his Dad to take him out to get it, but... “Uh,” he repeats dumbly. Derek's eyes narrow at him. Like he's daring Stiles to argue. “Okay,” he manages to get out. Derek's eyes slide back to the road, and Stiles just manages to relax. 

Cora has turned back in her seat; she's now facing the correct direction, and Stiles... Stiles feels like he's in the twilight zone. The entire situation is weird. So he is quite happy when they finally pull up in the high schools car park. He manages to escape the car with hurried thanks, before bolting towards the school. 

Derek and Cora trail at a more sedate pace after him. He feels their eyes on his retreating back. He refrains from shuddering.

Stiles is so lost in his own mind that he walks smack into someone. It takes him a minute to realise that it’s just Isaac, and he relaxes, before tensing again. Shit. Werewolf. 

“You all right, Stiles?” the taller boy asks him. Stiles clenches his teeth together tightly and nods. Isaac’s eyes narrow, and he leans in and takes a not so subtle whiff. He pulls back, his eyes wide.

“Derek is back?” he demands, his voice little, soft, and reminds Stiles of the few times he had ever heard him talk before Derek turned him into a monster of the night, all small and hurt. Stiles wants to tell him that, no, Derek is not back, that he has no idea what Isaac is on about, but, he can't do that because Isaac will be able to hear his heart beat, be able to tell that he's lying.

“Why did he go to see you rather than me? Or Scott?” Isaac asks. There is nothing harsh or insulting about what he said, though to some people it may seem that way. No, Isaac was genuinely confused. Because he was Derek's werewolf, Stiles wasn't. 

Stiles lays a calming hand on Isaacs shoulder and shakes his head.

“He didn't come and see me, Isaac. It was kind of an accident. The jeep broke down; he was driving past and gave me a lift. That's it. Look, he's in administration at the moment, enrolling Cora. I'm sure if you go there he will talk to you,” Stiles managed to say in one large breath, his hand not leaving Isaac's shoulder. 

Without a nod, or an acknowledgment, Isaac takes off. Stiles sighs. Now he only had to deal with Scott's reaction, which... Yeah, going to hide. 

He manages to avoid Scott until lunch, when his werewolf of a best friend sits beside him at their lunch table, patting his arm as he does. 

“The Hales are back,” Scott says to him as soon as his bottom has touched his seat, while going straight to his food. Stiles nods his head. “Cora is enrolled,” Scott continues blithely. Obviously, he is unaware that Stiles already knows all this, so Stiles just nods his head again. He's already down half a sandwich, which he's been ravishing with his mouth. 

Scott seems completely unaware of most things these days, mooning after Allison from afar. The two of them had resorted to being friends. Though Scott still held a torch for the huntress. It was sort of painful and awkward to watch. The two of them constantly dancing around each other. Add into the mix Isaac, and Beacon Hills had its finest love story. 

Stiles just watched it all, wincing and hiding snorts of amusement behind his hand. Sue him, he was an asshole, and he was single. And he has possibly decided that he will never have a relationship. After all, he had watched Jackson and Lydia's love story burn, hot and fast and painful, especially for him. He watched Scott and Allison struggle to be happy with and without the other... He'd seen the end result of Derek's relationships. And he had watched his father lose his mother. 

No. Screw that. 

Several minutes of silence between the two boys pass before Isaac and Cora join them. Stiles may have felt a little too human sitting with three monsters of the night, though he will never admit that to any of them. There was nothing wrong with being human. 

Somehow, Stiles forgets to mention his escapades of the night before to Scott. Scott doesn't ask, Stiles doesn't offer the information. No harm, no foul.

–

When the school day is over, Stiles finds Derek's car quickly, not wanting to be forgotten, or to keep the werewolf waiting. He’s not sure how much patience Derek has for him anymore. When they had first met, neither of them had any patience for the other, but, continuous mutual life saving had seemed to change that. The months that Derek had been away may have revoked any earned patience.

Anyone dealing with Stiles needed patience. Stiles dealing with Stiles needed patience. 

Cora is already seated in the passenger seat when he arrives next to the SUV, and Derek behind the wheel, a pair of dark aviators covering his eyes. Stiles manages to refrain from snorting. The werewolf is too good looking for his own good. Not that Stiles is going to tell him that. 

Stiles climbs into the seat that seems to be designated to him as of late. For a few minutes, as they wait in the traffic-jam that is the after school rush of getting out of the car park, everything is silent. 

Stiles sits, feeling slightly uncomfortable and out of place. Whenever he feels like that, he begins to get jittery, and his legs start jiggling on their own accord, not that he notices. He fiddles with the strap on his bag, and stares out his window; the kids milling about, the cars slowly inching their way forwards at a snail pace. 

He huffs, either in frustration or boredom, he doesn’t even know. Neither Derek nor Cora comment on it, which Stiles is glad for. He isn't trying to be rude; it was just a default setting, sort of like Derek being all grumpy. Default.

Stiles' phone beeps in his pocket, startling him. Nobody had messaged him that day, and he may have actually forgotten he even had it on him. 

Message Received: Dad  
Need a lift home?

“Huh,” Stiles mutters. It’s not every day that his Dad offers to pick him up when his car isn't working. A spike of worry winds its way down his throat. Is it Dad’s way of letting him know that something was wrong? 

Message Sent:  
Nah, I'm good. What's wrong?

So, sue him, he uses proper spelling and punctuation. He isn’t Scott, he can spell after all, and besides, qwerty keypads were invented for a reason. Stiles holds his breath whilst waiting for a reply.

“What's wrong?” Cora asks, breaking the silence of the Hales. She hasn't turned around in her seat to look at him like she had almost every other time she’s talked to him in the car.

“Nothing. My Dad just messaged is all,” he mutters back, eyes not leaving his phone as he waits for the screen to light up with a new message alert.

It finally comes.

Message Received: Dad  
Ok. Nothing is wrong. It's a bit chilly out, wanted to make sure you had a lift home.

He breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn't really know why he got so worried. His Dad is not really one to beat around the bush. If there had been something wrong, he would've just come out and said it. That, or been waiting at the school for him.

Silence returns to the car, but that only lasts several minutes before Derek is the one that breaks it.

“I'm going to drop Cora off at home, and then I'll take you to get your car,” he says quietly. 

Stiles doesn't think he will ever get over how much Derek's voice does not match his appearance. He has the whole tough guy look going on, always glaring and glowering and pouting, with the stubble and the cheek bones and the muscles. Then there’s his voice. It's not that it’s high; it's just not as deep or as growly as one would think.

Stiles doesn't even know why he's thinking about Derek's voice with such detail, especially when the man is sitting right in front of him. The man with the super sniffer. God.

“Okay, yeah, that's cool, thanks dude,” Stiles says, nodding his head. 

And that's what they do. They drop Cora off at their new place, which is in a small block of units a few streets from Stiles' place. It kind of surprises Stiles that it’s not just another abandoned building somewhere in the warehouse district or something.

Stiles guesses they really are here to stay and actually live. That leads him to wonder if Derek has a job, or is getting one. Would anyone in Beacon Hills even employ him, once they know or remember that he was wanted for murder, even if he was exonerated? 

Stiles manages to refrain from asking any of those questions.

See, sometimes, just sometimes, Stiles is actually able to stop himself from speaking before he puts his foot in it.

–

The drive to where Stiles' Jeep broke down the night before passes in relative silence and peace. Stiles plays Angry Birds on his phone to pass the time, occasionally asking Derek a question here and there, though they are purely mundane, and generally on his opinion on things. 

It’s been a comfortable drive, and Stiles isn't concerned about his throat being ripped out once. So, he is quite happy.

Until he spots his beloved Jeep.

His heart sinks, and he feels Derek stiffen beside him. Obviously, the werewolf sees the same thing he does. Damn. No way it isn't real then.

HIS FREAKING WINDSCREEN IS SMASHED. 

He can see the fractured, smashed, glass glinting in the remaining light of the day.

Derek stops the car, and Stiles is jumping out before he’s turned the ignition off. He runs over to his car and stares, forlorn.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he mutters, gripping at his hair and groaning. Dad’s going to kill him. He cannot continue to pay for all these repairs on the Jeep. How is this his luck!?

He then notices the tires. His slashed tires. 

“Oh my god. Oh my god. OH MY FUCKING GOD!” The last bit screamed in frustration. Stiles will be glad, later, when he’s calmed down, that his back is to Derek, so that the man can't see the tears that are falling down his cheeks. 

Why is he crying? Why isn't he handling this like a man? 

BECAUSE THIS IS HIS FUCKING CAR!

He takes a few deep, calming breaths, wiping his face, and steps closer to the Jeep. With shaking hands, he pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the driver’s door. He shakes his head subconsciously the entire time, lips turned down in a frown, nose scrunched. 

A piece of paper is folded on the driver’s seat. He doesn't remember leaving that there. He reaches out a hand, and picks it up.

I think I will play with you, and THEN eat you.

Stiles feels the bile creep its way up his throat, and his eyes burn with building tears. 

“Who the hell wrote that?” Derek demands, his voice low and rough, scaring the absolute daylights out of Stiles, who flails, and spins around, coming to a stop face to face with Derek. Who had obviously been reading the letter over his shoulder, and had been standing right behind him. 

Stiles smacks him in the chest, the note in his hands momentarily forgotten. 

“Don't do that,” he hisses at the werewolf, who merely raises an eyebrow at him.

“Who. Wrote. That. Note. Stiles.” Derek repeats through gritted teeth.

Stiles looks at the piece of paper clenched in his hands. The black ink is handwritten so perfectly, it could almost be mistaken for being printed. There is no hesitation in any stroke of the pen. 

The words float through his brain and he can hear the very voice that they came from. Deep, and without a doubt, dangerous. Stiles shudders, his free hand touching his side that the man had caressed as he spoke in his ear.

Stiles feels chilled to the core.

He spins around, eyes searching the trees that surround the road for any signs of the man, only to find absolutely nothing. 

“Stiles,” Derek's voice, now so much softer, breaks through to him and he turns back to face him. Stiles knows his eyes are as wide as saucers, that his heart is beating too fast, and too erratically. He can feel the shake in his hands, and his breath choking off as he tries to remain calm. Tries so hard that it actually hurts.

“Who wrote it, Stiles?” Derek asks again, desperately. Stiles closes his mouth and breathes deeply through his nose, struggling to calm down. At some point, he placed the hand with the note on Derek's chest, feeling him breath, trying to match his breaths. It had been a subconscious act, but it seems to be working, and Derek hasn't shoved his hand off, which is something.

As soon as his breathing is under control again—Stiles will pride himself later on managing to stave off a panic attack—he looks Derek in the eye and answers him.

“It's the guy from last night. The one that took off when you got here,” he mutters, his voice almost unrecognizable to his own ears. Stiles closes his eyes and takes another deep, calming breath. 

“Could you take me home, please?” he asks, pleads. When Stiles opens his eyes, Derek is nodding.

“Yeah, sure, of course,” the werewolf is nodding his head, agreeing. “I'll call the tow company, then I'll take you home,” he says. Stiles nods, thankful and heads to Derek's car. He climbs in the passenger seat and all but curls up on it. He closes his eyes and tries not to think. 

He can't hear what Derek is saying on the phone, but, after several minutes, the driver’s door opens, and Derek climbs in. He starts the ignition, and begins to drive back to town. Stiles hopes he's not mad about a wasted trip, but he can't bring himself to really care.

“They wanted someone to wait with the car,” Derek's voice breaks the silence. Stiles doesn't flinch at the sudden intrusion. “But, when I said that it was the Sheriff’s sons car, they agreed that it was fine for them to get it without you here. They'll give you a ring tomorrow to let you know what's happening,” Derek finishes. 

Stiles nods his head. He feels like one of those bobble head dolls that sit on the dashboard of a car. He feels ridiculous. But he doesn't care. His skin is crawling, and there is some creep that he is ninety nine percent sure is a supernatural being of the night, threatening him. Stiles just wants to hide from the world, not deal with tow companies. 

After several minutes, an idea strikes him, and Stiles finally brings himself to open his eyes and face the world again. He sighs heavily, and straightens in his seat, staring resolutely out the windscreen. He knows exactly what to do. There is no way, other than the bruises on his side, for there to be any proof that the man was supernatural, so...

So, he will go to the freaking law. He will tell his father, and have this entire thing investigated. He's got a note that is threatening him; he’s got a smashed windscreen and slashed tires as proof. His Dad is the freaking goddamned Sheriff of Beacon Hills and that means something.

It means that Stiles is on the side of the law for fuck’s sake.

He turns to Derek, and sees his fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, his eyes firmly on the road before him, his mouth narrowed into a frown. In other words, nothing different there.

“My dad is the Sheriff,” Stiles says. It probably seems rather out of the blue to Derek. Stiles doesn't care.

“O-kay,” Derek returns, eyes not leaving the road. Stiles isn't worried. He has, after all, been bitching at him to keep his eyes on the road. 

“I am the son of the Sheriff of Beacon Hills,” Stiles says. He can't really help the small smirk that's taking over his face. It's not his fault that watching Derek slowly work things out in head amuses him. Though it doesn't seem like the man is getting where this conversation is going. At all.

“Yes, he is,” Derek says, his eyebrows slowly working their way up toward his hairline.

“So... As the son of the Sheriff, I have the law on my side...” Stiles trails off, his smirk widening. Finally, Derek looks at him.

“Where are you going with this, Stiles? I am well aware of who your father is, and how you convince him who is guilty and who is innocent. I've been a victim of that before,” Derek says, his lips twisting at that. Stiles grimaces slightly, but doesn't let his smirk slip. He waits in silence for what Derek said to click in the man’s own mind. 

He waits.

Until finally...

“Oh,” the way Derek's lips form the O sound.... Stiles may shiver just slightly. “Oh,” Derek repeats. He doesn't smile; his face remains serious. But there is a look of satisfaction on his face. “Yes, Stiles, good. This is something that the law can deal with. If it were supernatural, I would deal with it, without a doubt, but, as it's not, the police are the perfect people to go to.” 

Stiles is a little surprised at how much Derek has been talking... When he does talk that is. Maybe, though, it's just to distract Stiles. Who knows. 

Then what Derek says sinks in.

Stiles hadn't mentioned that he thought it might not be human. Now, he isn't sure if he should. Should he tell Derek about the bruises on his side? At the thought of his side, his fingers go back to touching it. He doesn't notice. 

He deflates slightly. But doesn't tell Derek. 

The thought of fingers in his hair, hands on his bare side, whispers in his ear... 

“I don't know if he was human though,” he whispers, without meaning to. As soon as he realises he said that out loud, his hand shoots to cover his mouth. Derek pulls the car onto the shoulder of the road.

“What? You couldn't have mentioned this before? What makes you think that?” Derek asks, demands, yells. Stiles leans away from him, into the door, and stares at him, his mouth opening and closing. 

“I... uh. I didn't think to?” he mutters. “Because, uh, he bruised me?” he stutters. 

Derek closes his eyes for a brief second, before reopening them and leveling Stiles with a stare, one he has seen many times, whenever he says something stupid. 

“He pushed you over, and sat atop you, Stiles, of course he bruised you. He also grazed your chin. How does that make him not human?”

Stiles stares straight back at him. 

“Because his mere touch bruised me,” he says. Derek sits back in his seat, and breathes heavily through his nose, running a hand down his face. 

“Fantastic,” he mutters.

“I'm still going to the police,” Stiles says matter-of-factly. “Dad knows about the supernatural now, so no point trying to lie to him,” he finishes. He glares at Derek, daring him to contradict him. Derek sighs again, before starting the car with a nod. 

“Okay,” he says, and then after a moment, “Okay,”

The rest of the drive is silent.

Derek pulls up outside of Stiles' house, and Stiles isn't sure whether he is disappointed or pleased that his Dad is not home. The cruiser is not in the driveway. 

“Dad's not home,” he says quietly, as he gathers his bag from the backseat and opens the door. 

“I'll come in with you and wait till he gets home,” Derek offers. Stiles doesn't know why he does, but he's not going to look a gift horse—werewolf—in the mouth. He just nods his head and lets himself into his home, Derek on his heels. 

“Did you want some food?” he asks. Now that he’s home, he feels a lot safer. Doesn't feel like he has to keep an eye over his shoulder, watching for something, or someone to jump out of the shadows. Derek being there actually helps. 

Derek nods, and they walk to the kitchen. Stiles begins gathering food and utensils to cook something. He’s no gourmet chef, but he could make a mean Spaghetti Bolognese. Sure the sauce is from the jar, but, hey, he’s the one that puts it on the stove. 

After dinner is eaten, Stiles feels what must be his adrenaline rush crashing, so he heads up to his room, with his tall, dark, and handsome shadow following silently. What conversation had happened had mostly been Stiles nattering on about what Derek had missed while he had been out of town... Which was basically nothing.

Stiles sits on his bed, and pulls one of his books over, flipping it open, before glancing up to see Derek looming in the doorway, awkwardly.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, flushing. He had pretty much forgotten Derek was there. Derek shrugs. “Just sit wherever, you can dick around on the computer if you want, or help yourself to one of the books. I'm just doing a bit of research here.” 

Stiles doesn't actually know which one would surprise him more, Derek reading, or Derek using his laptop. All Stiles can really visualise Derek doing for fun is looming in the background. Though, he supposes, Derek must have some type of hobby. But, right now, Stiles doesn’t feel the urge to ask. 

Derek chooses a book.

Derek chooses Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. 

Stiles' eyebrows both rise at that, but he doesn't comment. Instead, he turns back to his own book, flipping through it as he reads bits and pieces. The information the book offers seems rather stilted to Stiles, almost like someone had half an idea of what they were writing, and just put that in there, rather than researching and gathering all the facts and putting them in order. 

No, this book is rather hithery-ditherty. 

He sighs. He would put it down, but there are still facts, and information in the book, and Stiles wants it all. 

After a little while, he pulls out a writing pad from his bag, flipped to an empty page, and begins attempting to draw some of the runes he had seen. These ones were no longer just doodles, like the night before. No, these ones, he was actually trying to make a rune. 

The first rune he practiced was an object protection rune. The physical design was intricate, with curves and dots, and Stiles wasn't sure of how absolutely perfect the image had to be. He hadn't yet learned if the runes had to be done to exact ratio measurements. 

That’s what research is for. To learn these things.

He starts out by just drawing the rune. Only after he has been able to draw it without any mistakes does he even attempt to put his belief behind it. He closes his eyes and breathes, before setting his pencil to the paper and believing as he draws. 

Stiles lets out a deep breath once he is done, picking up the piece of paper, and walking into the middle of the room. He sits on the floor, cross-legged, and with a lighter grabbed from under the edge of his bed, lights the piece of paper. 

And it burns.

Stiles sighs and pouts. It didn't work. He watches as the paper turns to ash on his bedroom floor before heaving himself up and grabbing another piece of paper. He sits back on the floor, and, with his tongue between his teeth and his belief simmering beneath his fingers, draws the rune.

Once he’s finished, he sets it on fire again. And watches it burn. Again.

With a groan, he flops backwards onto the floor. 

“What are you doing?” Derek asks. His voice is so sudden out of the silence; it startles Stiles, once again. He certainly does not screech like a girl with fright. Seriously, one day Stiles is going to scare the crap out of Derek. One day.

“I'm learning Runes,” Stiles says matter-of-factly. 

Derek raises a judgmental eyebrow at him.

“Why?”

Stiles glares at him.

“So I can turn you into a toad, obviously,” He snarks at the werewolf.

Derek huffs before turning back to his book.

“Looks like you're doing great. I'm assuming the paper is supposed to burn?” Derek mocks him. 

Stiles, very maturely, sticks his tongue out at him.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it has taken me so long to update. I've been so lazy and blah. But, I hope this satisfies you, and hopefully, it wont be so long until the next update!

Runes For Dummies tells Stiles to start with something simple. Fire is simple. He's sure of it. If there's a flame, it burns. Simple. He tells Derek his theory.

(Obviously, the book Stiles was getting the actual runes from was not Runes For Dummies)

Derek, in return, levels a baleful glare on him.

“Fire is anything but simple, Stilinski. It's an element. It's filled with lust and anger, danger. It's filled with life and death, warmth and starvation, air. It is more than just heat. It's more than just something simple. It's destruction and progression,”

Stiles may be a little awed by Dereks passion for fire.

Stiles may want to smack himself in the head. Dereks life was ripped apart by fire.

With lowered eyes, Stiles whispers an apology that he isn't sure he actually wants Derek to hear. The only acknowledgment Derek gives is a small incline of his head.

“Why not try something more simple?” Derek suggests, peering over the top of the Harry Potter book, straight at him, unblinking. Stiles bites his lip and shrugs.

“I don't know if it's because fire is too difficult for me, or if I just don't have enough belief,” Stiles muttered. “Deaton said I have a spark. But, surely, everyone has a spark,” he doesn't mean to sound so forlorn, but, he thought there was finally something that made him special, made him special.

“If everybody had the spark, then why did he get you to do the mountain ash all those months ago?” Derek asks. Stiles isn't sure if Derek is trying to placate him, or if he's being serious. It's hard to tell when the mans expression is always either neutral, or scowling, and both are almost the same anyway.

“Because the rest of you were werewolves and couldn't touch the powder?” Stiles says, pouting.

“What about Allison?” Derek says with a slight huff, before turning back to his book.

Sighing heavily, Stiles knows he isn't going to give up already, not after less than twenty four hours of even reading the books, let alone trying runes. He can't really expect to be perfect, or even able to, straight up.

He crawls over to his bed, grabs the book he's been using as a reference, and flips through it until he finds the rune he's searching for. Back in his position on the floor, he puts pencil to paper, and begins to sketch, long strokes of grey, following the design laid out in the book, his mind filled with intent, belief.

Stiles takes a deep breath, picks up the piece of paper, and proceeds to rip it.

He repeats the process, draws the rune, picks the paper up, and tears it straight down the middle.

The only sound in the room being the scratching of the drawing, the turning of Derek's page and the tearing of the paper. After the fifth or sixth time, Stiles groans, throwing his arms up in the air, paper fluttering around him like confetti.

“I hate my life,” he mutters, burying his face in his hands. When he looks up, Derek has put his book down and is staring at him.

Actually, Stiles is sure he is glaring at him, considering several different options on how he would proceed to kill Stiles and dispose of his body before Dad gets home.

“Can you not learn to draw the rune correct?” the man sounded so put upon, like, Stiles' mere presence was killing him. Stiles narrows his eyes at him.

“Excuse you mister, but, the rune was actually drawn fine. It's the spark that isn't working,”

Derek raised an eyebrow.

“You can sense when the spark isn't working?” he sounds legitimately surprised, and impressed. Stiles feels a swell in his chest at that, and almost doesn't want to correct him. People have so little faith in him as it is, and Derek showing pleasure for Stiles... Well.

“No.” he mutters, folding his arms across his chest defensively. “The rune is meant to prevent the page from being destroyed. Obviously, if I can rip it, then the page is destroyed and the rune isn't working,” he pouts, glaring down at the strewn pieces of paper, and missing whatever look Derek was no doubt directing him with.

“How long have you been doing this? Working with runes I mean,” Derek asks, instead of commenting on Stiles' lack of skills.

“The first one was just before, the fire, just a few minutes ago,” Stiles admits, still not looking at Derek. He hears Derek snort. Stiles is opening his mouth to retort, but Derek beats him to the punch.

“God, Stiles. Calm down then. You've been doing runes for like, half an hour, not three months. No one expects you to be able to perform miracles straight away. You're only human. Things like this take time and practice,” Derek's voice was comforting, serious. Stiles' eyes flew up to look at the man, staring in confusion. Derek was being nice. Derek wasn't being himself!

“Who are you and what have you done with the real Derek Hale?” he demands before he can stop himself, which isn't that much of a surprise, so Derek doesn't even look offended.

“I'm being serious, Stiles,” Derek says instead. Stiles shakes his head, trying to wrap his mind around Derek being nice.

“Alert the papers,” he mutters, more to himself then to Derek, smirking at his own overused joke. He occasionally likes the classics. Derek doesn't comment.

Stiles turns his eyes back to the paper before him, taking Derek's words to heart. The werewolf is right, of course. Stiles puts a lot of pressure on himself to learn things as fast as he is able to, having the problem of his ADHD distracting him all too frequently. He has spent years doing things like that, trying to get things right straight away, so that he can easily move on. He needs to learn that sometimes, it takes longer than one sitting to learn something. It takes longer than his attention span can last sometimes.

At that thought, Stiles actually considers popping another Adderall, but decides against it, knowing that at some point tonight he would actually like to sleep.

With eyes that were slowly growing disinterested in the task before him, he began eyeing off the paper that was now strewn across his usually immaculate room. Stiles fingers start to twitch. He cannot handle mess. His bedroom has to be neat and tidy and the state his room is in at this very point in time is certainly nowhere near tidy.

Without a second delay, Stiles is moving around his room like a hurricane, picking up pieces of ripped paper, rushing about finding the dustpan and broom to collect the ash that litters his floor. Within minutes his room his back to his preferred state, even his books are stacked neatly on his bedside table. He finds himself able to breathe easier when his eyes take in the cleanliness surrounding him.

“If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were a werewolf, with the speed you just did that,” Derek says from the computer chair, where Stiles forgot he was sitting. Stiles flails as he turns to look at the man, who is just staring at him, honest surprise on his face.

Stiles blushes deeply. Most people were completely unaware that he's a complete clean freak. Most people that come to the Stilinski household are under the belief that Dadwas the cleaning bee, not his son. Stiles was the one that handed out chores. Stiles dictated the household work. The house had to be cleaned to Stiles standards if Dad wanted any bacon on Saturdays. Dad had long learned not to argue.

“Uhh....” He says dumbly, staring straight at Derek, who has an amused smirk on his face. Suddenly, the smirk is gone, and Derek is standing, moving towards the door.

“Your father is home. Come on, let's go down and tell him what's been happening,” Derek says firmly. Stiles freezes for a moment, but, when Derek places a large hand on his shoulder, he begins to move, leading the way downstairs. 

As they are walking down the stairs, Stiles is no longer sure if he really wants to tell Dad about what is going on. He doesn't want to put Dad into any added danger. But, then he remembers, Dad knows about the Supernatural now. He knows what is out there - or at least some of it - and Stiles kind of wants to have the comfort of him knowing what is going on. No more lies, they had said, after all.

Stiles steels himself as he approaches the kitchen, where Dad is standing, busy making himself a cup of tea.

"Hey Stiles, how was your day?" Dad asked, with his head stuck in the fridge, grabbing the carton of milk. Before Stiles had a chance to reply, Dad straightened up and turned around to glance at him. Stiles watched as his eyes landed on Derek.

"Hale? I thought you'd left town?" Dad said, choosing to ignore Stiles for the apparent intrusion. Dad knew about Derek now. Stiles had made sure to tell him that Derek was one of the good guys, to absolutely press that point. Derek should never have been a suspect in his sisters murder. Stiles told Dad about all the wrong that had been done to Derek. But, looking at the way Dad was staring at Derek, Stiles could almost forget that he had said anything.

Dad was staring at Derek like the guy was a murder suspect, not an exonerated, innocent, werewolf. Damn. Had Stiles dreamed telling Dad the whole truth? Sometimes it felt like it. It wasn't like they sat around talking about it all the time. 

"I did, Sir. But, Cora needs to be in school, so we came back here. She got to know some of the students when she was here a few months ago, and learned to like them," Derek confessed easily. He didn't look ill at ease, or like Dad was going to arrest him. 

Baby steps, Stiles figures.

"And you are here? In this house? Because?" Dad asked. His voice isn't quite as harsh as Stiles had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't very welcoming.

"That's something I need to talk to you about, Dad," Stiles interrupts, before Derek can open his mouth and start talking. Dads eyes landed on Stiles, an eyebrow raised in a similar fashion to what Derek can achieve. 

"Is there something going on, Stiles?" Dad asks. Stiles nods, hesitantly.

"Yes, Dad. See. Last night, after the Jeep broke down, I was walking home, because I was quite a ways out of town, and it was raining, and I was on a back road," Stiles begins, and then proceeds to tell his father what had happened the previous night, who had saved him, and then what had occurred that very afternoon. 

Stiles' hands are shaking again when he's finished, and neither Derek, nor Dad had interrupted him while he was speaking. Stiles is glad of that, because if they had've done, then he is sure he wouldn't have been able to continue. However, both Dad and Derek are staring at him. 

Stiles is surprised by the heat of the stare Derek is directing him with. But, then he realizes that Derek was almost as in the dark about the whole situation as Dad was. Stiles hadn't told him what the Man-thing had said or done, and it was only now coming out while telling The Sheriff. 

Dad was open mouthed, with a look of pure fury on his face.

"Was he human or not?" Dad asked. His cup of tea is sitting on the bench by his elbow, untouched, and getting colder by the minute, but Dad seemed unaware. 

Stiles shrugs. It's a far more nonchalant shrug then he realized he could pull off, especially as he doesn't feel that way at all. 

"We don't know. I never saw his face. I only heard his voice, only felt him on me." Stiles mutters, shame lacing his words and burning at his cheeks as he admits that. He can't look at either of the other two males when he says it, doesn't want to see their reactions. 

Once again, Stiles feels dirty, is itching to go upstairs and shower, to try and scrub the mans touch off his skin. But, he knows he can't. He had tried the night before, and had failed. He has a bruise on his side just from the mans fingers.

"Show us the bruise?" Derek asks, speaking up for the first time since Stiles began his story. His voice is surprisingly gentle and soothing. Stiles lifts his shirt up without hesitating and turns to the side, allowing the two men to see.

Dad whistles. Derek doesn't make a noise. Stiles refuses to look at either of them, or even at the bruise. He doesn't want to see anything. He presses his eyes shut, fighting back tears.

Why is he fighting back tears? Why can't he be a man about any of this? He shouldn't be crying over a lousy bruise, or a man that knocked him over in the dark. Nothing actually happened. He was hardly harmed. Sure his jeep was totally trashed, and a creepy note left on his seat, but he was safe.

And he is crying.

The tears slip down his cheeks silently as he faces away from Derek and Dad. He's so embarrassed by his childishness, and by the whole situation in general. What must Dad and Derek think of him? He wants to run upstairs and hide in his room away from them both.

He doesn't because he does have some dignity left.

Stiles jumps when a hand lands on his shoulder. He doesn't even need to open his eyes to know that it is Derek. He would have heard his father approach.

"Calm down, Stiles. You're in your own home, safe. Your father is here, and so am I. We aren't going to let anything happen to you, okay? But you need to calm down, because if you don't, you are going to have a panic attack. Your heart is so erratic right now," Derek says soothingly, his fingers tightening just slightly on his shoulder, as he tries to calm and reassure him. 

Stiles opens his eyes and stares at Derek through his watery vision. 

"Sorry," he mutters. Derek shakes his head, but steps back. 

"That's a pretty nasty bruise. It looks like he took to you with his fists and feet, not just a caress," Dad mutters from where he is standing behind Derek. He is still wearing a frown, but at least Stiles knows it isn't directed at either himself or Derek. 

"I almost wish he had, it would make more sense," Stiles says. He doesn't want to talk about this anymore. 

"Okay," Dad says, bringing his eyes to meet Stiles'. "In the morning, I'll take you to the station, and you can file a report. I'll go to the mechanics to find out about your jeep. Do you still have the note?" 

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. Dad seems to have sensed his desire for the conversation to be over, and was complying. The thought of the note that had been left, the perfect penmanship, sent a shiver down Stiles' spine. He looks between Derek and Dad as he tries to remember where he left it. He doesn't remember what happened to it. Just knows that he had been holding it when he was standing next to the jeep, but after that, he has no idea. He frowns.

"I don't know," he mutters.

"It's okay, I've got it," Derek says, pulling it out of his pocket. "You dropped it when you got back in my car," he says at the look of surprise on Stiles' face. Derek hands the note to Dad, who accepts it politely. 

"Thank you, Derek, for being there for my son. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't have arrived when you did. I owe you. Anything you need, at all, just let me know," Dad spoke. His voice quiet and sincere, his eyes leveled straight at Derek. Stiles shifted from beside the werewolf, feeling the discomfort that was almost emanating from him. 

"I'd say my pleasure, but I don't think anyone can really take pleasure from that. I am glad that I was able to help Stiles, though. He has saved me so many times, I kind of owe him," Derek admits, bobbing his head in acknowledgment. Stiles turns and stares at him.

"You don't owe me for saving your life. It's not like I was going to let anything happen to you," Stiles says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yes, I know that Stiles. But, I'm a werewolf, I have super strength, and heal faster than possible, almost, yet, you're the one constantly saving my life. If you're in danger, I will do whatever it takes to keep you alive." Derek snaps at him. Stiles stares, mouth hanging open in surprise at the tone Derek used, like, there was nothing on this earth that could possibly keep Derek from making sure that Stiles remained unharmed. 

Stiles is touched. Nobody has ever said anything like that about him, and, even if it was just because Derek feels he owes Stiles, he is willing to take it. Because he bloody well deserves it!

Stiles bobs his head in silent acquiescence . With Dereks tone, there is no arguing.

\--

Derek leaves, after Dad has layered him down with more thanks than he can possibly manage. Stiles is almost embarrassed at the amount of gratitude Dad was showing, but he's also pleased. 

Stiles doesn't stick around downstairs to listen to anything Dad has to say. He doesn't think he can handle anything else right now. So, he flees upstairs before Dad can turn and begin talking to him. Stiles doesn't hesitate before heading straight for the shower and hiding in there for however long.

Hot water rushes over his body, and he just stands there with his face tilted toward the spray. Maybe, if he stands here for long enough, with the water hot enough, it will wash away the memories of the past several days.

Stiles wonders if time-travel is possible. Because, if it is, then he is so finding that shit and he is so going to travel back three days and not go book shopping. Honestly. All because he wanted a book. 

Actually, if time-travel were possible, he is so going to go back in time and not drag Scott into the woods in the middle of the night, looking for the severed body of an Alpha werewolf.

No. Scratch that, Stiles thinks. If he ever manages to time travel, he is going back in time to before the Hale house fire, and he is so putting a stop to that. None of this shit would have happened if Kate hadn't killed Dereks' family. 

And maybe, just maybe, Derek may get the chance to live a happy life with smiles and a family, rather than death and destruction.

And Stiles might get the chance to be a normal seventeen year old, rather than jaded and harassed by supernatural creatures that just couldn't keep their creepy hands to themselves.

There is a knock on the bathroom door that startles Stiles out of his reverie. It also causes him to jump and almost slip over, and his heart to pound painfully in his chest. He gasps in surprise, and takes a lungful of the water that is still falling around him. 

"Dad?" Stiles calls out, hoping to God that it is just his father, and not something other. 

"Was just making sure you hadn't drowned in there. Hurry up, don't use all the hot water, I still need a shower too," Dad says through the door. Stiles lets out a breath of relief. 

"Sorry," he calls back, as he shuts the water off. When he enters his bedroom, towel wrapped around his hips, Dad pokes his nose through the door.

"If you need anything, just call out, okay?" he says. Stiles nods his head. "And if you want to talk...?" Dad offers. Stiles stares at him a moment. He's not considering it, he's just surprised that Dad is really willing to sit down and talk about feelings with him. Stiles, however, isn't so willing.

"Nah, it's okay. I'm tired, I think I'm just going to hit the hay," he says. And it isn't until that moment that he realizes how true his words were. He really is tired. Which isn't really that surprising, as he didn't get any sleep the previous night. He yawns, as though to prove his point, even though it's purely accidental. Dad laughs.

"Well, alright then, kiddo, sleep well," and is out the door. 

Stiles sighs as his door clicks shut, and then he turns around and gets dressed into his pajamas and climbs into bed, curls up under his covers, closes his eyes and is asleep quicker than he has managed in months. 

That night, Stiles doesn't dream. 

\--

Dad remains true to his word, and takes Stiles into the station first thing in the morning. While there, he takes Stiles statement and files the report. 

"I will need Derek to come in soon and take his statement as well," Dad says quietly, as they sit in his office, once the statement taking is over. Stiles knows he should be heading to school, he's already missed first period, but he just can't be bothered getting up and heading there. It means walking, and he really doesn't want to. Dad's on duty right now, so he can't really take him, and he swears up and down that he is not getting Scott to come and pick him up, because he is so definitely not riding on the back of that death trap. No, Stiles values his life far to much, thank you very much.

"Sheriff, Hale is here to see you," a young deputy, one that Stiles has yet to meet - there are so many new deputies since Matts massacre - pokes his head through the door after a short knock. "He says he's here to make a statement? Said you'd know what he was talking about?" The deputy sounded unsure. 

"Send him in, please," Dad says calmly with a nod.

The Deputy heads out, and a moment later, Derek is standing in the doorway, black leather jacket, and tight jeans as usual. Stiles doesn't know why he is even surprised by the werewolfs attire. He mentally shrugs. 

Derek sits down next to Stiles at Dads directions, and proceeds to give his version of events. Over all, it goes a lot quicker then Stiles thought it would, and before he knows it, Derek is standing up and heading towards the door. His hands are on the handle, before he pauses and turns back to look at the father and son sitting at the Sheriffs desk.

"Want a lift to school, Stiles? I'm heading that way anyway, Cora forgot lunch," Derek offers placidly. 

Stiles nods his head and stands up. He shoots his father a parting wave, before following Derek out the door and out of the station to his SUV. 

As Stiles climbs into Dereks car for the third day in a row, he tries to figure out why Derek has been so nice to him. He can't really come up with what must've happened for the normally hostile man to offer to give him lifts everywhere he has needed to go recently. 

"Why are you helping me so much? You know you don't have to give me lifts and stuff right?" it was out of his mouth before he was aware that he was even speaking. Stiles really wished he was able to stop himself sometimes, but, he never really did have very good brain-to-mouth filters. 

"Because, the first moment I saw you in months, is when you were being held down, about to be either killed, or worse, and after everything that you have done for me, giving you a lift to and from school is the least I could do," Derek says casually. 

Stiles hopes Derek missed his flinch at the words 'killed, or worse,' because Stiles is pretty sure he almost jolted out of his body. His throat feels thick, and he really just wants to stop feeling so desperate and afraid right about now. He really wishes he could protect himself some how, so that he wouldn't get hurt anymore.

He remembers the runes, and the reason why he got them. To protect himself and his friends. He hadn't managed to do that yet. But, he swore, up and down, as the thought of that man thing rang through his head, that he would learn how to control the runes, even if it was the last thing he did learn. Stiles hands tingle at the thought of the runes, and he just wants to continue researching them and practicing them.

"Okay," he manages to mutter, as Derek pulls up in the car pack of the school. 

"I'll take you home this afternoon," Derek offers just before Stiles climbs out of the car. Stiles nods his head, and thanks him.

He wanders into the school, with thoughts of Derek and runes on his brain.


End file.
